


War

by Newtella



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hippies, M/M, Suicide, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6658087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtella/pseuds/Newtella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s America, 1974. Kurogane hates that he can’t fight in the Vietnam War, but he hates the hippies that smoke on his apartment’s stoop (namely, one Fay D. Flourite) even more. But when Kurogane gets to know Fay better and learns about his past, he begins to question his own opinion about war—and his definition of what war even is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War

Kurogane hated hippies.

He especially hated the group of them that liked to lounge outside his apartment building, laughing and dancing and smoking pot until they couldn’t see straight any longer. What good were they doing for their country? What were they doing to protect their friends and families? Didn’t they know there was a war on?

Kurogane hated people who didn’t work hard. Who had no direction. Who didn’t figure out what they wanted and labor tirelessly until they achieved it. They made him feel sick to his stomach, honestly. He kept feeling like he should be helping them. Protecting them. But he couldn’t do anything, because they needed to do it for themselves, and when they just _wouldn’t_ it was the most frustrating thing in the world.

Kurogane hated feeling powerless.

Kurogane hated when _he_ couldn’t work until he achieved what he wanted.

Kurogane hated how these stupid fucking hippies could all stand up and waltz over to the nearest army recruitment center whenever they wanted to, and all it would take would be one word from their lips and toss of their disgustingly long hair and they would be handed a gun and shipped off to war. They could fight, they could win, they could _protect their loved ones_ at any moment, whenever they wanted to—and yet they were all wasting that chance.

Kurogane hated that he’d been born with only one arm.

But most of all, Kurogane hated that the stupid stupid stupid recruitment center wouldn’t let him volunteer to fight in Vietnam.

He snarled and glared at the hippie sprawled across his front stoop, pulled a knife from his pocket. “Get out of my way, idiot, before I _make_ you!”

The hippie merely giggled, smiled an infuriatingly cheery smile. He leapt out of reach of Kurogane, but the motion was so fluid and light and effortless that it looked almost as if he’d floated. He was tall and lithe and ludicrously thin, with long pale hair and bright blue eyes. He was barefoot; he wore a crown of flowers atop his head and a sky blue dress that stretched to the ground.

“Oooh, did I make you mad?” The hippie tittered and danced. “So scary! Is Mr. Black going to hurt me?”

“MR. BLACK?!” He _was_ wearing all black today, but… this asshole had no right! Kurogane gritted his teeth hard. His grip tightened on the knife. “One more word, hippie, and I’ll slice you open!”

The hippie just smiled. “Violence is no way to solve anything, Mr. Black! Haven’t you been listening to our protests? Peace and love is the onl—”

As a matter of fact, Kurogane _wasn’t_ listening. He shoved his key into the lock with far more force than was necessary and wrenched open the door. “Shut up, hippie,” he grumbled. “There’s a war on, in case you haven’t noticed. America’s never going to surrender. That’s just the way we are. We fight until we win, and we never give up if there’s still something we can do! So forget about your stupid fantasy world and learn to live in the _real_ world for a change! People are violent. People die. It’s war. Now get over it and LEAVE ME ALONE!”

He slammed the door in the hippie’s face. The blonde man stood there for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He kept smiling.

“I know that people die, Mr. Black,” he hummed, and sat down on the stoop again.

******

Kurogane hated how his bedroom reeked of pot smoke at night, wafting through the window from the hippies outside. He shoved open the window with one arm and one prosthetic, snarling at the man down on the stoop. “HEY! WOULD YOU TAKE THAT SOMEWHERE ELSE? I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE IN HERE!”

The blonde hippie from earlier was still on his stoop. He offered Kurogane a lazy smile, puffed out a mouthful of smoke. “Hello, Mr. Black. I’m sorry, I’m being selfish, aren’t I? Do you want some?”

Kurogane bristled. “I don’t want anything to do with your hippie druggie crap! And my name’s not ‘Mr. Black’! It’s Kurogane!!”

“Ah! Kurochuchu then!” He giggled like mad at his own joke. Or maybe it was just the weed. The smoke curled around him, twirling into the night sky. “Kuropipi! Kurochan!”

Kurogane’s mouth fell open. “Did you say that just because I’m half Japanese?! How fucking racist are you?!!”

“Oh, not at all~ I was just thinking of cute nicknames for Kurorin, that’s all.” He let out a tiny burst of a laugh. This one didn’t sound very mirthful at all. “I’m Fay Flourite, in case you were wondering. Please feel free to call me Fay.”

“I’m not gonna call you anything,” Kurogane grumbled. “It’s not like I’m ever gonna see you again.”

“Awwww.” Kurogane couldn’t see Fay’s face very well from his second-floor apartment, but it looked to him almost as if the hippie was _pouting_. “But I like your stoop, Kuromomo! It’s really comfortable! A great place to smoke!”

Kurogane seethed. “Go home, hippie. I’m trying to get some fucking sleep.”

“Ahhh, you see, I’d rather not do that.” Fay just smiled. “I’m not likely to get any sleep there, so what’s the point? I’d much rather be out here, enjoying the stars. And your great company, Kuropin!”

“Great company?! Well, you’re fucking terrible company!! If I was down there with you, I’d slice you in half with my knife!!”

Fay just shrugged, as if he didn’t mind the idea of this in the slightest. Kurogane slammed the window shut.

Fay blew smoke into the sky. He thought it made the shape of a tiny, lost boy. But that was probably just the paranoia caused by the marijuana in his hand.

******

Kurogane went to the army recruitment center again the next day. Pleading, bribing, threatening—he’d tried everything. But it couldn’t hurt to try again.

Kurogane hated giving up.

He stomped home, swinging his furious fists and wearing the grumpy frown of the century. He knew what his sister Tomoyo would say: there’s more to life than war, Kurogane. There’s a different kind of strength found in waiting for the troops to come home, Kurogane. You can be worth something even if you’re not out there in Vietnam protecting the people you love, Kurogane, because there are different ways to protect people.

He knew he’d feel like punching her in the face. But he wouldn’t do it. He could never hurt Tomoyo. He could never hurt the very person he was trying to protect.

This fucking hippie, on the other hand, was a different story. Fay hadn’t been seated on Kurogane’s stoop when he’d left for work in the morning, but sure enough, the smug little asshole was here now. He was probably a late sleeper. Lazy bastard.

“Why the long face, Kuromun?” Fay chirped. He didn’t appear to have changed that stupid dress or washed his long-ass hair in three days. “Did something happen that made you sad? Does Kuropupu need a hug?”

“I’m not _sad_ ,” Kurogane snapped, turning to him with a scathing glare. “I’m _frustrated_.” He fidgeted with his single hand for a minute, uncomfortably. “They… they won’t let me go to war. ’Cause if you haven’t noticed, I’ve only got one of these.” He held it up for the hippie to see. “Which is so fucking stupid! I could beat any soldier in a fight any day! I don’t even need a gun! Just give me a knife and let me have at ’em! I’ll teach _them_ who’s boss!”

“Ooooh! Kurochama is so groovy!” Fay giggled. “But you’re really lucky, you know. You have the perfect excuse not to go to war!”

Kurogane squeezed the doorknob of his apartment building so hard it almost bent under the pressure. “That’s the fucking _point_ , hippie. I _want_ to go to war!” He turned on Fay, attacking him almost as strongly with his eyes. “What’s your excuse, anyway? Why haven’t you enlisted? You’re the right age, and you seem perfectly able-bodied to me!”

Fay shrugged. “You got me! I don’t have a reason in the world.”

Kurogane looked him straight in the eyes. “ _Then you’re a coward._ ”

For just a moment, Fay faltered under his gaze. An instant later, he was back to his usual smiles. “Yep! I guess I am.”

******

Kurogane hated when he was kept awake at night by the sound of someone sobbing outside his window. And the pot smell was still there.

For some reason, he wanted to protect him. Somehow.

He shoved his pillow over his ears and rolled over. He closed his eyes.

******

He went to the recruitment center almost every day now. It was becoming more a routine than an actual hope.

The group of hippies had come back again: The Arab-looking girl who wore shirts too short for her and seemed far too young to be smoking. The excitable white-haired kid with big ears who kept babbling incomprehensible jokes through the haze of smoke. And of course, Fay.

Kurogane shoved them aside roughly on his way to the door. How could that kid be joking? How could anyone be joking? People were dying. Men were dying and women were dying and children were dying and Kurogane couldn’t save them.

“Hello, Kurotama!” Fay gushed, leaning forward to grab the hem of Kurogane’s shirt. He scowled. The hippie was high on something a lot stronger than pot, today. “Have you come to play with ussssssss?”

“GO THE FUCK HOME!” Kurogane shouted. “HOW CAN YOU BE SO SELFISH?! WHY AREN’T YOU OUT THERE PROTECTING THEM?!”

The others fell silent. Kurogane didn’t even look at Fay. Fay was glad. It meant that the expression of pure pain that came over his face, of anguish and self-loathing and fear, didn’t have to be hidden behind a smile. For just a moment, anyway.

“What’s the point in trying?” Fay tried for a shaky smile once the moment was done. “I’ve already failed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Kurogane said. “The war is still on!”

“No,” said Fay. “No, it’s not.”

******

The photos above Kurogane’s mantle of his smiling mother and father seemed to blame him with every step he took. Why aren’t you out there protecting them. Someone could die because you’re not there.

Kurogane hated how life wasn’t fair. His parents had lived through World War II. His American dad had fought and his Japanese mom had survived the bombings and they’d gotten married and fallen in love and come back home and had Kurogane and Tomoyo and died. They’d died fifteen years after the war because they got sick. They’d made it through the worst war in human history and then they died because of some goddamn fucking _flu_.

And there was nothing Kurogane could have done to save them. _Nothing_.

Kurogane hated it.

Kurogane hated the way his fists clenched and his muscles tightened and he couldn’t breathe because all he could think about was the way his parents had told him, over and over, that military service was the very best thing a man could do for his country. That it was his job to protect America now. The American people, in his hands. His father had been one of the army’s best. Now it should have been his turn to take up that mantle and save America. To save as many people as he could because he hadn’t been able to save _them_.

Well, the American people in his _hand_ , anyway.

Tomoyo would have said he could protect them in other ways. That there were other dangers in this world than bombs and napalm and communism and dictators and physical wounds.

Kurogane would have reminded her that you can’t fight sickness, so he was doing the best he could.

******

Kurogane went out onto his own stoop that night, opened the door to his apartment building and sat down and smelled the stars. He cradled a bottle of whisky in his hand and took a swig. He couldn’t smell the pot smoke anymore, but the air reeked of it. Maybe he’d developed a tolerance by now.

Fay hugged his knees and let his long hair fall over his eyes. “Can I have a sip?” he asked, sounding for once like someone very small.

Kurogane pursed his lips in disapproval. “You trying to become an alcoholic, too? In addition to being a drug addict?”

“Something like that.”

Kurogane passed him the bottle. He took a long swallow.

“My dad wants me to go to war,” Fay said. “He’s one of those really serious adults. With really boring short hair who wear suits and go to work and hate peace and rock music and fun! He’s no fun at all!”

He took another drink. Kurogane looked at him. “Is that why you never go home? You don’t want to go back to someone like that?”

“It’s not that, exactly.” Fay twirled the bottle in his hands, watched the spiraling liquid inside. “It’s more that he has a habit of reminding me of exactly the things I’d rather forget.”

“So you’re not running from him, then. You’re running from _yourself_.”

Fay didn’t answer that. “Oh! Look!” He slouched forward, resting his hands on the ground between his knees. Kurogane swiped back the whisky bottle. “The moon is in Pisces tonight.”

“Ugh.” Kurogane took a swig, made a face. “I hate all that hippie astrology shit. You can’t possibly believe it, can you? You must know it’s all a load of crap.”

“Maybe.” Fay shrugged his shoulders and continued to gaze at the moon. “To be honest, I don’t really know _what’s_ real, anymore.”

******

“You’ve been drinking a lot more than usual lately,” Tomoyo said with gentle concern. Kurogane grumbled something unintelligible and slammed his bedroom door.

Outside the window, Fay was smiling and laughing as he smoked.

It sounded so fake it made Kurogane want to puke.

******

He went out to spend time with them as a group the next day, after he came home from the recruitment center. Fay was talkative as ever, but there was also a strange distantness to the way he interacted with Kurogane, a wall he’d put up that hadn’t been there during the nights they’d spent drinking together. So Kurogane talked to the Arab girl instead. She was bright and cheerful, but there was a sadness hidden behind her eyes. Kurogane was beginning to think there was no one in the world who didn’t have a sadness hidden behind their eyes.

“My boyfriend is fighting in Vietnam,” she said. “All he’s ever wanted is to protect me, but…” For a moment, she looked deeply troubled. “I feel like he’s lost a part of himself. He’s become so single-minded. So violent and determined and… cruel. He thinks by killing innocent people, he can somehow help me.”

It hit home a bit too much for comfort. Kurogane shifted awkwardly on the stoop. “He has good intentions.”

“Maybe. But good intentions aren’t always enough.” She shook her head, mouth bitter with pain, before turning back to Kurogane with a winning smile. “But you _must_ be against the war, Kurogane. I can’t imagine you wouldn’t be.”

“Wha? Me?” Kurogane was honestly taken aback. “Of course I’m not! I’m all for it! I wish I was out there fighting right now!”

“Really?” Now it was the girl’s turn to look surprised. “But you’re Asian. Why would you want to help white Americans slaughter your people?”

Kurogane mumbled something about being Japanese, not Vietnamese. A few feet away, a black-haired boy in a bizarre vampiresque cloak proclaimed that his twin brother was currently fighting in the war. A few feet away, Kurogane saw Fay shaking.

The white-haired kid noticed. “Is Fay feeling paranoid?” they asked, looking concerned. “Because of the pot?”

“Why would you say that, Mokona?” Fay asked with a tiny laugh. “I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine.”

He shook until the others had all gone home.

Kurogane went inside and ate dinner with Tomoyo.

He hated not knowing what to say.

******

The next day on the stoop, a car pulled up and a white man wearing short-cropped hair and a suit stepped out. He was impossibly tall and impossibly thin and wore a stern smile.

The hippies scattered, fleeing in all directions to avoid this personification of their responsibilities, of society, of war and sobriety and adulthood and death and power and no more dreams. Fay tried to run, too, but the man grabbed his arm. Not quite roughly, but forcefully enough that Kurogane’s hand instinctively shot to his knife.

“Who the fuck are you?” he growled.

“Oh, how rude of me! Allow me to introduce myself.” The man smiled, sugar-sweet, but did not relinquish his grip on Fay’s arm. “I’m Ashura Flourite. Is my son a friend of yours?”

“Dunno if I’d call him a friend,” Kurogane grunted.

Ashura tilted his head. “I see. Well…” His gaze rested then upon his child, who was squirming in his grasp. Ashura just held him tighter. “It’ll be good to have you home tonight, son. I haven’t seen nearly enough of you lately. But I’m sure you knew I’d be able to find you, no matter where you went. I always can!”

The panic in Fay’s eyes was slowly being replaced by a dull resignation. “If it were up to me, I’d never come home.”

“I’m aware of that fact,” Ashura said. “But you have some things you promised me you’d do. Or have you forgotten?” Turning away, he nodded politely in Kurogane’s direction. “He seems like a nice boy. Why don’t you spend time with people like him more often, instead of with that disgusting, delinquent hippie crowd you’re so fond of?”

Fay slumped in his father’s grip. Kurogane snarled. He hated the way this man was treating Fay. He hated the way Fay wasn’t making a single move to fight for himself.

“Look,” said Kurogane. “I hate hippies. Always have, always will. I try every day to volunteer for the army, and these bastards don’t want to lift a finger. But your son, his friends… they’re good kids. And they deserve your respect as much as I do.”

Fay didn’t react. His father merely curled his lip into a sneering smile.

“No, I think there’s a difference between my son and you, young man.” Ashura gestured grandly at Fay’s long hair, at Fay’s long dress, at Fay’s long face. His gorgeous flowing unique pastel sad sad self versus Kurogane, with short hair and a button-down and pants that were average and serious and strong.

“You’re brave,” said Ashura. “You wish to serve your country.” He smiled a hugely bright, fake smile. Kurogane could see where Fay had gotten it from. “My son is a coward who has done nothing to deserve respect. _My son has done nothing whatsoever to make up for his guilt_.”

Fay hung his head. His hair obscured his eyes as Ashura dragged him away, towards the car, towards society, towards responsibility and war.

“Come, Yuui,” Ashura snapped. “We don’t have all day.”

They got into the car, Fay as pliable and limp as a ragdoll. Kurogane stood on his stoop and watched them drive away.

He hated how his parents were dead.

But at least he’d always grown up knowing he was loved.

******

“There’s no point asking what he meant by guilt,” Kurogane said, handing the bottle over to Fay as the stars shone above them. “’Cause you’re not gonna tell me, no matter what I say.”

Fay drank half the bottle down in one swig. “No point at all!” He smiled brightly, as if the events of the day had never happened at all. “So don’t you worry your head about it, Kurotama! Let’s talk about you!”

“Eh?” Kurogane made a move to grab back the bottle: partially because he wanted to drown his own sorrows, and partially because he felt it was his responsibility to save Fay from drinking himself to death on that stoop. “What’s there to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Fay ran his finger around the rim, allowing it to make a gentle whistling sound. “Why do you want so badly to go to war?”

Kurogane’s hands flexed into fists, and open again. “Simple. I want to protect my country.”

“But there’s got to be more to it than that. Is this about your arm? Proving you can be strong even though you only have one of them?”

“Shut up! Nothing about having one arm prevents me from being strong. I know that.” He stared off into the distance for a moment, at the rows of houses. A family in each. Men, women, people, children. His cousins, Amaterasu and Sohma. That Arab girl. The white-haired kid. Tomoyo. Fay. All he could see was sickness. All he could see was all of them dead.

“I want to protect my country,” he said again. “I don’t want to lose anyone important to me ever again. I won’t allow it!”

Fay stared at him. “And you think war is the way to prevent that? Don’t you think war is just a good way to ensure that you _lose_ everyone you love?”

“SHUT UP!” Kurogane was on his feet, knife out. “IT’S THE ONLY THING I CAN DO! I CAN’T FUCKING FIGHT DISEASE! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?! PEOPLE ARE _DYING_ , HIPPIE! PEOPLE ARE DYING AND THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN DO ANYTHING TO SAVE THEM!”

Fay looked like he’d just been shot. “Are you trying. To die. In their places.”

“What?!” Kurogane calmed down a bit as the absurdity of this statement hit him. “No. I’m trying to make sure we win the war. So nothing bad happens to the American people. What are you going on about?”

Slowly, Fay stood up. His mouth was dead serious. His hair was yet again obscuring his eyes. “Then kill me.”

“What?! Hippie, don’t be an idiot. I didn’t mean—”

“Kill me. Kill me. KILL ME, KUROGANE!” He balled his hands into fists. Tears were streaming down his face. His nails were digging into his palms so hard they bled and he was shaking. Kurogane stared. “I deserve to die. I _want_ to die! If I die, everyone will stop dying! If I die, maybe he’ll come back in my place! I’m sorry I’m such a coward I’m sorry I killed him I’m sorry I didn’t die instead I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

He sank to his knees. He rubbed his forehead with bloody fingertips. Kurogane stared.

After a moment, Fay looked up at him. He tilted his head, the same way Ashura had, hours before. And then, Fay smiled.

“I’m sorry about that, Kurosama,” the hippie said with a giggling smile. “It must have been kind of awkward, huh! Let’s just pretend it never happened, hmm? That seems the best course of action for everyone.”

Fay stood up again, brushed off his skirt. He picked the half-empty bottle off the stoop and handed it politely to Kurogane, smearing the bottle’s edges slightly with blood. He began to walk, in the direction of what Kurogane assumed was his home.

Kurogane grabbed his arm.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snarled.

“Home, of course, Kurochu,” Fay replied. “Will you please let go of my arm? You’re hurting me.”

Kurogane snarled. “Do you _really_ think I’m going to let you go home in this state? Idiot! For all I know, you’ll off yourself as soon as you get there!”

“Maybe,” Fay said, with the fakest cheery smile Kurogane had ever seen. “What’s it to you if I do?”

“IDIOT! I don’t want a corpse on my stoop.” Kurogane yanked the hippie towards him. “How do you think that girl would react if you died? Or the white-haired kid? Do you want them to have another thing to be sad about?”

“Sorry,” Fay said, but even his smile was becoming strained, now. “I told you I was selfish.”

“Idiot.” Kurogane sighed. He let go of Fay’s arm, but kept his eyes on him. “I meant what I said. You’re not going home.”

“Where am I going to go?”

Kurogane didn’t reply. He pulled his key from his pocket and opened the door to his apartment building. He held it open with his prosthetic and held the whisky bottle with the other.

Dazed and exhausted, Fay stumbled inside.

******

Tomoyo never questioned why Kurogane had a hippie stay in his room that night, or the night after, or the night after. On some level, perhaps due to her stellar intuition, she’d always known that her brother was a queer, but this didn’t feel like a boy he’d brought home to fuck. There was an air of solemnity that shrouded the whole affair, and anyway, Kurogane wasn’t that sort of person.

He only had one bed in his room, so that was where both of them slept. On some level, he knew that Fay must be a queer, too. But that wasn’t important, right now. Fay cried every night and barely slept. Kurogane slept with his arms around him, hands balled into fists so that he could fight off whatever sickness came to kill him in his sleep, whether it be a physical illness or a mental one, this time.

On the third night, at 4 am, Fay said into the darkness, “My twin brother was drafted. My twin brother is dead.”

On the fourth night, at 2 am, Fay said, “I wasn’t drafted. The draft goes by birthday. He was born just before midnight. I was born just after.”

On the fifth night, at 5 am, Fay said, “If I had volunteered to go with him, maybe he wouldn’t have died.”

On the fifth night, at 5:30 am: “That’s what my dad says. That I should feel guilty that he’s dead and I’m not. That it’s my duty to go to war to make up for my guilt.”

At 6: “My dad wants me to be a soldier so I’ll come back home with a gun and shoot him. Because he doesn’t want to be alive anymore when his favorite son is dead. That’s what he says to me.”

At 6:10: “My brother’s name was Fay. My name is Yuui.”

At 6:15: “I hate myself for killing him. I hate myself so much.”

At 6:20: “I want to go to war so I can die.”

At 6:25: “But I don’t want to kill anyone else.”

At sunrise: “I hate how dying in war won’t bring him back. No matter what I do, I can’t bring him back.”

“Yeah,” said Kurogane. He gazed at the photo on his bedside table, of the smiling Japanese woman and smiling white American man. He turned the photo around so that he couldn’t see them. “Yeah. I hate that too.”

******

After a week or so, Ashura seemed to wake up from some bizarre spell of not giving a fuck where Fay had disappeared to and showed up outside Kurogane’s door. Tomoyo stared in shock through the peephole at the man outside, standing there smiling as if he could go on waiting for the rest of time.

“Don’t answer it,” Kurogane growled. He glanced at Fay, who was curled up on the sofa, fast asleep after years of sleepless nights. Instead of an empty booze bottle, an empty carton of ice cream rested between his pale hands. “Tsk. Have you been pushing sweets on him again?”

“It’s hardly pushing,” Tomoyo giggled. “He asks for them constantly.”

“He didn’t used to. Your bad habits are rubbing off on him.”

“Or maybe he’s always wanted them and now finally feels comfortable enough to ask.”

Kurogane huffed.

Tomoyo giggled softly before shifting to serious once more. “Now… what shall we do about _him_?” Kurogane took a turn at the peephole. Ashura hadn’t moved. “I take it this is Fay’s father?”

“They look nothing alike,” Kurogane grumbled.

“No. But they have the same smile.”

Kurogane shot her a glare. “Who cares? How do we make him go away?”

“I would try talking to him,” Tomoyo suggested wisely. “Even the most horrible sort of person can be reasoned with sometimes.”

Kurogane looked back at Fay. He looked exhausted and ill, his hair too long, his chest too thin, his eyes seen too much. But at the corner of his lips was a sincere smile. A smile that Fay had _never_ worn when he’d been living with Ashura.

Kurogane wanted to protect everyone, always. But at this moment, as he watched Fay’s near-transparent skin raise slowly up and down with his breaths, as the hippie’s blonde eyelashes fluttered and the light from his spoon reflected onto his forehead, like a disco ball, like a target a soldier was about to shoot…

He knew, in that moment, that he could not let Fay go to war. He had to protect Fay by not letting him go to war. He had to save Fay from himself, from his mad desire to die in battle that Kurogane found disturbing and heart-breaking and—and all-too familiar.

He had to save Fay from the man outside, with short-cropped hair and an eerie smile.

Kurogane held his knife directly in front of him as he unlocked the door. “I’ll talk to him. But I swear, if he tries any funny business I’ll slice his throat.”

Tomoyo frowned. “I don’t think Fay would like that very much, Kurogane.”

“What are you talking about?” Kurogane growled, one hand already on the doorknob. “He’s the most fucking abusive father I’ve ever seen.”

“But he’s still Fay’s father,” Tomoyo said gently. “People are attached to their families, Kurogane, even if their families aren’t very kind to them. And…” Her eyes grew fond and soft, and she rested a tender hand on Kurogane’s forearm. “I wouldn’t like you to become a murderer. And I think deep down, under all the things you say about wanting to go to war, you don’t want to become a murderer either.”

Kurogane grunted, noncommittal. “I’ll do what I have to do.”

With one swift movement of his one real arm, Kurogane opened the door.

Ashura was waiting, smiling as genially as if he’d merely been stopping by for tea.

“I believe you have my son,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Kurogane. “So what?”

“Well…” Ashura smiled, if possible, even wider. Kurogane scowled. He hated that smile. “… well, I’d certainly like him back, seeing as he _is_ my son. You see, there are some things he’s promised me he’ll do.”

“He’s not going to war,” Kurogane said firmly, staring into Ashura’s ice blue eyes with his fiery red ones. “He doesn’t want to fight, and you can’t make him.”

“Oh, deary me, has Yuui been telling tales about me?” Ashura tittered a laugh, a tinkly, careless sound. “That boy always did have the nasty habit of telling lies…”

It took all Kurogane’s self-control not to throttle him then and there. “Wow, I wonder where he picked that up from?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Ashura was definitely smirking now. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself. “Are you accusing me of something? Me, Yuui’s loving father?”

“Don’t play dumb. You fucking know what I’m accusing you of,” Kurogane spat, shaking with rage. How dare he. How dare he. Fay was broken because of Ashura. Fay wanted to _kill himself because of this man_! “Why did you tell Fay it was his fault his brother died?”

The tiniest flicker of something—Was it grief? Guilt? Desire?—flashed in Ashura’s eyes. “Fay? You mean Yuui, don’t you? Fay is dead.”

“Whatever. Yuui goes by Fay now. Carrying on his brother’s legacy or some crap. I didn’t ask.” Kurogane’s gaze was stony and strong. “Tell me why you think it’s his fault.”

Ashura was practically dancing on the balls of his toes, never for a second letting up his smile. “Well, I have to give him _some_ reason to want to kill me, don’t I? The boy’s far too cowardly and soft to do it all by himself. I thought the gross stress reaction or whatever it’s called might do it, when he gets back from war. You know, when soldiers go insane after the trauma of the battlefield and want to kill their friends and families?”

Kurogane gaped at him. “ _You’re_ the one who’s insane.”

“Am I?” Ashura asked mildly. “I don’t think so. I really just don’t have any desire to keep on living. You see, I hate myself quite a lot.”

“And why the fuck does Fay have to be the one to do it?” Kurogane demanded. “Why don’t you just fucking off _yourself_?”

“Oh, I’m not like my oldest son, young man, nor am I like you.” Ashura held out his arms and threw back his head, as if inviting the whole run-down street to give him their best shot, as if calling for open fire. “You see, I’m a terrible coward.”

And his eyes snapped back to Kurogane, and he had never seen eyes so cold. “Now give me my son.”

Kurogane’s hand was sweaty on his knife. He gripped it tighter than ever. “No.”

“And how, exactly, are you going to stop me?”

The words left Kurogane’s dry lips numbly, automatically, systematically: “I’ll kill you.”

And in that instant, he knew he didn’t want to.

Because maybe he could protect Tomoyo, protect Sohma and Amaterasu and Sakura and Mokona out there in Vietnam with ammunition and a gun, but no matter how many men he shot, no matter how many bullets he lodged in heads and blood he sent spurting out of human flesh and screams of civilians he heard, men like Ashura would still be abusing boys like Fay, back here in America.

And he understood what Tomoyo meant, about there being other ways to serve his country. And he understood that his parents had died, not because they were weak, but because life was cruel and life was insane and war or peace, hippie or soldier, it didn’t matter at all—people would still die, and Kurogane could never save them all.

But he could save the tall, thin, smiling man front of him. He could prevent Ashura from dying by his own hands. And even though Ashura was clearly the enemy, even though Kurogane wanted nothing more than to win the war, he didn’t want to become the very thing he was trying to protect Fay from.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, Kurogane and Ashura. Kurogane was breathing heavily, but his knife stayed steady in the open air, instead of thrust into Ashura’s bony abdomen.

Until Ashura let out a cry of wild, strangled, insane fury and rage and delight and destruction and pain, and until Ashura ran forward at Kurogane before he could move, before he could think, he could not have been able to predict this because he’d seen war behind the lids of his closed eyes and he’d smelled sickness and death in his own home but suicide was something he’d always heard of but never feared—

And Ashura ran into Kurogane’s knife, so that it sliced straight through him.

And Kurogane stood there, with Ashura balanced on his knife like some kind of horrific bleeding shish kabob, and Ashura smiled.

“Tell Fay I love him,” said Ashura, as blood soaked down his suit and his smile looked less like a mouth, and more as if Kurogane had sliced a gash across his face as well. “I never wanted him to die. I only wanted him to be brave, like his brother, like you.”

Kurogane choked out a bizarre and faraway reply. “I’m not brave. I’ve never been to war.”

“Well, no, you haven’t. But, between you and me, our little secret? I think that makes you even braver.”

And Kurogane stood on his stoop, watching the life drain out of him. No hippies came to call tonight and there was no smoke, but as blood ran down pinstriped pant legs and tears ran down one prosthetic and one real arm, the stars began to rise.

******

A year later, America surrendered and quietly packed up their soldiers and went home.

Eventually, hippies stopped protesting in the streets and the crowd in front of Kurogane’s stoop thinned out and got jobs and tried brand-new sorts of drugs. Sakura and Mokona stopped by sometimes for dinner. Sakura’s boyfriend had come home unharmed, but she never brought him. She still loved him, she said, but he was different now.

Fay moved in with Kurogane and Tomoyo, who had to buy a lot more ice cream to keep up with his sweet tooth. Every so often, Kurogane left flowers on his parents’ graves.

It was midnight, and the moon was out, and Kurogane sat on his stoop, taking a swig of sake and gazing upwards. He passed the bottle to his right, to Fay, who looked healthier than he had been. His hair was still long and he still wore dresses and draped himself head to toe in flowers, but there was more color to his cheeks, more meat on his bones, more hope in his eyes. He took a long swig of drink and took Kurogane’s hand.

“Do you think Fay would be proud of me?” he asked.

Kurogane didn’t find it difficult, nowadays, to think like a soldier. He sometimes forgot that he _hadn’t_ been to war. He hadn’t been to Vietnam, no. But there were battlefields right here in America, of a slightly different kind.

“Dunno,” Kurogane grunted. “I can’t speak for someone I never met. But I know I’m proud of you, hippie.”

Fay giggled and squeezed Kurogane’s hand. He couldn’t feel it, because it was his prosthetic, but he saw Fay do it and appreciated it all the same. “You still call me that. I kind of like it, but my name is Fay!”

“And my name’s not Kuropipi,” Kurogane grumbled.

“Ehhhh, Kurowan doesn’t like my nicknames? Fay will have to think of even cuter ones so Kurochuchu never gets bored!”

The war bureau was ridiculous, Kurogane thought, as Fay giggled and babbled on. How could they tell who was prepared to fight based on how many arms a person had? How could they know from a glance who had family that would never forgive themselves, who would blame themselves for the death of a soldier? How would they know who was prepared to become a killer?

Kurogane was a killer now, and his real arm felt heavy with the weight of it. Even if the police had determined it suicide. Even if all the witnesses agreed. Ashura’s leering face, the smell and taste and feel of blood on his own two hands, were things that would be with Kurogane until the day he died.

Fay rolled a blunt and lit it. For once, Kurogane took a hit. He watched the smoke envelope them both until there was nothing left of them at all.

Kurogane hated war. 


End file.
